


Keep It Off My Wave

by BlueInkAlchemist



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueInkAlchemist/pseuds/BlueInkAlchemist
Summary: Jesse McCree is trying to stay useful, but hasn't yet answered the Recall to Overwatch. Olivia Colmar, aka Sombra, ends up crossing Talon in the wrong way and finds herself on the run. Does he trust her enough to let her in? Does she trust him enough to feel safe with him? And are we talking about his "safehouse", or something more personal for both of them?A prelude to You're A Bright Light, You're a Fistfight.





	Keep It Off My Wave

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You're a Bright Light, You're a Fistfight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800539) by [tsukara (AndThenTheresAnne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenTheresAnne/pseuds/tsukara). 



Nobody wanted to live near an Omnic production facility. Even one that had been lying dormant since the Crisis only had the destitute or the desperate living nearby. And then there was Jesse McCree. He wasn’t living there, per se; he was squatting. Wandering through the area, he’d seen and heard the sounds of heavy machinery that belied the dilapidated exterior of the facility. McCree wasn’t about to jump to conclusions. He was the “seeing is believing” sort.

In truth, being on his own like this suited him more than rattling around a Watchpoint looking for something to do. So far, from what he’d gathered, only a few folks were both alive and able in order to answer Winston’s recall. He’d kept tabs, put out feelers. Based on what had happened at that museum, Tracer had jumped at the call. It was probable Torbjörn would, as well. Angela Ziegler was a possibility. He had no idea where Genji even was, or if he was alive. It was possible the brother he’d mentioned had finished the job he’d started all those years ago. But there was no way Reinhardt would miss the chance to be a part of things again. Stories of a Crusader rampaging around Europe “righting wrongs” had been some of the easiest for him to find. Jesse was curious about the ‘squire’ that apparently was following the old man around. What kind of young woman tied her fate and fortunes to an aging lion like Reinhardt? A part of him wanted to find out. If Overwatch was to return, they needed new blood.

For his own part, Jesse wasn’t sure his own blood was up to snuff. He had a lot of things in his life that could make things difficult for former friends and new comrades. And surely they needed someone like Echo a hell of a lot more than they needed him. On top of Talon and the Omnics, other aspects of the past were cropping up. While Ashe was in custody now, and B.O.B. somewhat disassembled, it still worried McCree that something else from his past might follow him right to Winston and the others. And he wasn’t about to let that happen.

The apartment that had windows facing the Omnic factory was in serious need of maintenance. Nobody had rented it for some time, and it was tucked into a top-floor corner of the dilapidated building, which made it perfect for McCree. Sure, the walls were thin and the locals surely knew the place had a new occupant, but they were too busy with their own lives to ask questions. He kept to himself, ducked out for food now and again, and watched the factory. Nothing yet; he’d give it another week before writing it off as paranoia or an isolated incident.

He’d picked up a duffel of clothes and, to pass the time, an old guitar. He was still re-teaching himself chord progressions and tunes he’d used to know, applying enough pressure with the fingers of his prosthetic hand to the strings without snapping them. It was frustrating and satisfying in turns, especially as he started to hear things that sounded more like Johnny Cash and less like Jesse McCree messing around with muted strings and muttered curses. The feel of the instrument resting on his jean-covered leg was soothing, just as much as the now nearly empty glass of bourbon on the small table in front of him. It was hot in the apartment, so he wasn’t wearing a shirt; he didn’t want to sweat through the only one he currently had.

As he fiddled with the melody of ‘Ring of Fire’, he thought back to the old days, back before Overwatch was disbanded. Then as now, part of him couldn’t help but feel ‘outside looking in’. Blackwatch had been its own animal for so long that it was barely connected to the main roster. Sure, as far as the general populace concerned, they were all one big happy crusading family - at least before the Venice incident. Those wounds were still fresh, even to him and to a surprising degree. He felt partially responsible, and he still wasn’t sure what his place was, other than being the guy to show up and shoot the bad guys. What else did he really have to offer?

The knock on the door made McCree jump. On instinct, the guitar was swept onto the couch, and he rolled forward, grabbing his revolver from the coffee table as he went.. He didn’t bother grabbing any extra clothes; it wasn’t like anyone from Talon would care about his state of undress. He stayed in a crouch as he approached the door, raising the weapon and pulling back the hammer. He reached the door and listened.

No sounds of weaponry outside. Not even anyone shouting from the other apartments in the hall. He slowly stood.

“Who’s there?”

“Hey, Joel.” The voice was quiet, accented, and familiar. McCree frowned. He hadn’t heard it since Calaveras at Christmas. “Mind if I crash here tonight? My… boyfriend threw me out.”

His mind raced. _What is that troublemaker talking about?_ If Sombra wanted to find a place to stay, couldn’t she just hack the registry of a five-star hotel or something? What was she doing in this run-down building in an industrial part of town, even if it was so close to an old Omnic facility?

“Uh,” he said. “Is it just you?”

“Yeah, at least for now.” There was something in Sombra’s voice. Something McCree couldn’t quite place. When they’d met at that bar in Calaveras, there had been a flippancy to Sombra’s attitude, the sort of devil-may-care approach that surely ground the gears of more focused and intense individuals. But one of the reasons they’d been able to share drinks was that there was something they had in common: they were both survivors. Whatever came along, they’d roll with it.

And that’s what McCree did.

He opened the door. She stood framed in the doorway, hands thrust into the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt, cheeks slightly smudged by mascara. Her eyes met his, and he took a moment to try and quantify what he was seeing. He’d sunk more than a few poker players by doing that, by seeing the bluff or sensing the trap. He didn’t see a trap in Sombra’s eyes. Either she was hiding it well, or…

“C’mon,” he said quietly. “Have a seat on the couch. Y’ want some coffee?”

She looked down at her feet, then nodded. He stepped aside to let her in. The jeans she was wearing had holes in the knees and were frayed at the bottom. Her shoes didn’t match. And as he closed the door behind her, McCree saw that she wasn’t armed, nor any of her gadgets. Her hands came out of her pockets as she sat on the couch; both of them were unadorned. She picked up the guitar and, after looking at it, set it to one side carefully.

“So, I uh… I’ve been working for Talon.”

McCree shook his head as he took his gunbelt from the hook near the door, holstering his weapon before strapping the belt on. Stepping into the kitchen, he poured coffee grounds into the filter in the automatic drip machine’s basket. He filled the pot with water, then finished setting up the brewing. He came back around to face the couch, with his arms crossed, leaning against the support beam that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment’s main room..

“Y’ don’t say.”

She took a deep breath. “They’ve paid well and the work’s been challenging, but I don’t really subscribe to the whole ‘change the world by killing people’ thing. I tried to get something of my own out of it for one reason or another. And… I guess that kinda caught up with me.”

McCree hadn’t moved. “This is my face when I’m shocked, darlin’.”

Sombra gave him a sour look. “Like you’ve never taken a risk to help yourself out. How many people have you bluffed at in poker, McCree? And how many of them have been armed?”

He thought about it for a second, then nodded. “Not sure that’s the same sorta thing, but I see what you’re gettin’ at.”

“I’ll grant you, I haven’t been able to take a lot of my money with me the way you might’ve from some of your more interesting games. I wouldn’t be here if I had. Maximilien was taking a better look at my accounts than I thought he was. I should be able to get around that with some time and a decent-enough laptop. But the bigger threat out there is Reaper. Apparently, he’s got a list of people he personally wants to feed to his guns. And I got myself on it.”

“How’d that happen?” McCree moved back over to the coffee machine and poured a mug. After he handed it to Sombra, he poured himself a fresh finger of bourbon.

She took a sip of the coffee. “Thanks for this. And… just for listening. I had a feeling there was more to you than that hat and hokey accent when we met in Calaveras. Glad to know I was right.”

McCree pulled over a folding chair and had a seat across the coffee table from Sombra.

“So what happened after you made the list? I’m assumin’ it’s because of what they found out about your extracurriculars.” He took a sip of bourbon as he studied the hacker. He wasn’t about to let her change the subject on him. After a pause, she nodded.

“You’re right. Thankfully, I’d thought ahead and set up security around where I was working. So when Talon soldiers showed up to storm the place, I had the opportunity to get myself out before they actually found me. I didn’t have long to puzzle out where to head, and your name was at the top of a very short list of places where I figured I’d feel safe.”

“Before I starting blushing thinkin’ that was a compliment, what made ya think this place is safe?” 

She shrugged. “It’s just based on everything I know about you. Especially with things like you rescuing Echo.”

McCree stopped mid-sip and stared at her. “Careful, there.”

She waved her free hand dismissively. “Just saying, you’re a good egg. You’re not the kind to turn me over to Talon, knowing what would be likely to happen to me at this point.” After a long sip of coffee, she hummed quietly. “I’m not out of the game yet, or anything. Just… need to lay low. Until I can find a way back onto their good side.”

“Provided Reaper doesn’t want to keep you out ‘cause you pissed him off.”

She shrugged. “He’ll get over it. I hope. I just gotta score something juicy, get Akande or Moira to vouch for my worth - both would be great! - and then I can start breathing easy again. For now, though...”

“For now…” McCree took a deep breath and looked around the ramshackle apartment that might fall apart if either of them sneezed. “I ain’t sure how safe this here ‘safehouse’ actually is.” He studied the peeling wallpaper and water damage behind the sofa. “Not much of a house, even. I’ll help how I can, though.” 

“I appreciate that.” Sombra took another appraising look around, and snorted softly. “I knew Overwatch doesn’t have the resources it used to, but this place is pretty shoddy. Even by the standards of a guy who’s lived at least half his life on the road.”

“This ain’t an Overwatch op,” he said. “I ain’t answered the recall. I was just going through town, got a bad vibe from that factory, an’ managed to find this old forgotten Blackwatch bolthole in a place where I can keep an eye on things. Not sure if it’s Talon or some nasty Omnic troublemakers or what.” He paused. “Know anythin’?”

Sombra shook her head. “With even a basic rig I could probably find out. I didn’t hear anything about Talon in this area, though. It’s part of why I came here. But let’s get back to why you haven’t answered that recall. You didn’t burn any major bridges. If nothing else, Winston could use someone like you around.”

“I think part of why I’m out here is I’m lookin’ for somethin’ active to do, keep an eye on where the shootin’ might start next. ‘Cause that’s where I’ll need to be. I’m a pretty good gun-hand.” He looked down at the other hand, the prosthetic hand, metal and widgets where flesh and blood used to be. Back when he was whole. Lost, chaotic, lawless, but whole. “An’ that’s about it, these days.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and poured himself a fresh one.

Sombra snorted.

“If I’m not entirely out of the game, neither are you, cowboy.”

He looked at her and blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“Going back to that train job you foiled? Took more than being a ‘good gun-hand’ to plan around the plan of your old buddies in the Deadlocks.”

“I didn’t do it for me.” He thought, just for a moment, about Echo, and how much more she’d be bringing to Overwatch. More than he ever could, at least by his reckoning. He was fine with keeping his distance. He was worth more out here, could do more good than harm. He wouldn’t endanger anyone else if he stayed on the move, on his guard, on his own.

His jaw twitched. His left hand’s grip tightened, cracking the glass he was holding slightly.

It was fine. This was fine.

Sombra leaned towards him, holding her steaming mug like it was her machine pistol.

“Let me tell you something, _pendejo._ I’m here because I won’t stay someplace where I’m gonna get used and thrown out. I’ve been using them back, but I got enough self-worth to know that I deserve better than to be leaned on as a resource by Moira only for Reaper to blow my ass away. And it’s not just because I think I’m hot shit, even though I know I am. It’s because I know my worth and nobody’s gonna to take that away. Certainly not some _pinche cojón_ who thinks the entire world’s wronged him and owes him something.”

She paused to take a breath. McCree didn’t fill that silence with anything, even a question. The earnestness of the woman struck him. Sombra always communicated in playful japes and self-congratulatory half-truths. This sort of thing was as incongruous to McCree as it would be if Tracer were dressing in black and listening to Gregorian chants. Sombra continued.

“Where I’m going with this, _mi amigo,_ is that you’ve got worth, too, and it’s not just who you can shoot. or where you can squat to look for who to shoot next. So you’ve left some bodies in your wake. _Relájate,_ who hasn’t in this life? You feel bad about that which is more than I can say for some. You’re letting that define you, though, and you can’t. You’re better than that. You’ve got a lot to offer, McCree, and not letting yourself see that isn’t doing you, or Overwatch, any favors. So knock that shit off.”

“That easy, huh?”

Sombra snorted. “Fuck no. Nothing worth doing is. Nothing worth doing should be. It’s actually really hard to hack today’s security systems, you know? Sure, I know enough to make it look easy, because as I said, I’m hot shit. But it’s not easy. Neither is unfucking your own head. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that **everything** can be hacked. And nobody’s head can’t be unfucked, if they have the mind to actually fix their shit. Especially one like yours.” She smiled a little. “It’s on straighter than you think, Joel, and it looks good in that hat.”

She punctuated her statement by leaning closer and touching the tip of his nose with her left forefinger.

“Boop!”

McCree blinked. Then, he chuckled, and felt a little heat in his face. When was the last time someone had touched him like that? His ‘safehouse’ suddenly felt a lot more safe, despite the Talon-colored cloud that had followed Sombra into it. It wasn’t a nice place, not with the constant sounds of traffic outside and more than occasional shouting matches inside, clearly audible through those thin walls. But it was just the two of them, and she’d touched him in a way that was, for her, affectionate. At least, it felt that way to him.

“Thanks, Shady.”

She narrowed her eyes as she sat back against the couch. “I was considering not calling you Joel anymore, but if you wanna go down that road, cowboy, then Joel it is.”

“Well, it ain’t my name, but that sounds fair.” He got up from the chair and moved back to the kitchenette. “Tell ya what. Stay as long as you want. That couch ain’t a memory-foam king-sized, but I’ve slept more rough. Take the bed, an’ all the time ya need.”

She downed her coffee, then stood, walking over to lay her mug on the counter. Then, standing on her tiptoes, she planted a tiny peck on his cheek.

“If I duck out, I promise to leave a note.”

“If you stay,” he replied, “I’ll make breakfast.”

She grinned as she headed for the bedroom.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, _vaquero._ ” 

She closed the door. McCree dumped out the rest of the coffee into a Mason jar, either to pour back through the machine in the morning or to drink straight if he was in a rush. He washed the mug and his glass, then cleaned the coffee pot. He replaced the grounds in anticipation for the morning. Then, he took off his gunbelt, hit the lights, and walked over to the couch, stretching out on it, pistol across his lap with his left hand over its barrel.

He heard something like pneumatic brakes hiss across the street. As he closed his eyes, McCree thought that, maybe, the hacker now in his bedroom might actually help him figure out what was going on over there in a factory that was supposed to be abandoned and dead.

At the very least, it was good to not feel quite so alone.

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, the titles come from songs & lyrics.
> 
> Work title is from Soundgarden.  
> Chapter 1 is from Linkin Park.


End file.
